


Kill or be Killed

by footprints



Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:28:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25210129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/footprints/pseuds/footprints
Summary: No law in the desert, no friendships. No life worth risking your own. He should have killed him. Should have been killed by him. And yet.
Relationships: "Blondie" | The Man with No Name/Tuco Ramirez
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Kill or be Killed

The worst decision he's ever made, in a lifetime of bad decisions, to shift his weight until they're touching, shoulder to shoulder, to reach out and press his face against Blondie's neck, to make it clearer than ever what he's willing to give, to take. The graveyard is only a few days away. Not much time, now.

The fire's nearly out and the night is still and quiet. There's not nearly enough surrounding noise to cover his breathing, heavy, and how it stops completely when Blondie's arm reaches up and goes around him in return. The darkness is comforting, even more than the whisky, but it can't cover sound, or the lack of it. Can't conceal the way his hand pauses as he draws his thumb across Blondie's face, his own face still hidden.

He considers what to say and settles on nothing, for once. They haven't spoken of it, whatever is between them, haven't acknowledged it out loud, and yet this is still, finally, happening. What value in saying anything, at this stage? Conversation has never been of great importance for either of them. Blondie stays silent, for the most part, and Tuco never says anything that's truly in his heart, if he can avoid it. It's easier to lie; to others, and himself. Blondie can sense the truth inbetween the words, unfailingly. And Tuco can sense the thoughts behind the silence, or thinks, hopes, he can.

Seventy hours crossing the desert. And, in return, a gun pointed at Blondie, ready to shoot. Would he have done it, without the interruption? He doesn't know, will never know. He's not sure. He didn't want to, but he might have done it, in that moment. He's glad he didn't. One action, one second, an ever-expanding present stretching into a future in which you carry that one moment around with you, forever. All the men he's killed, without second guessing, and he can never un-kill them, whether he regrets it or not. Usually not. But he's glad he didn't kill Blondie. He doesn't think he could have carried that with him.

They haven't spoken about any of it. 

He breathes out with a shudder, face still pressed into Blondie's neck, mouthing at it as he reaches into the man's pants and draws out his cock, stroking it. For a moment, he wonders if they can do this without looking at each other. He's never known what's good for him, though, and even as he thinks it he's pulling back, meeting Blondie's half-shut gaze. And then, shockingly, their lips are pressed together, and Tuco has never let himself think about this act, even as he thought about a hundred other filthy things, touching himself in the night, knowing that Blondie could hear him across the fire. The kiss is louder than his breathing, louder than the sound of his hand working Blondie's cock. A coyote howls in the distance.

Suddenly, a voice in his head, his brother's voice, telling him that this is a sin. As if kissing makes it more so. Tuco thinks about all the sins he has committed in this life and surely, surely, this does not count amongst them.

"God, fuck, Tuco," Blondie says as they break apart, and Tuco cannot believe he spoke first. A miracle. His name in that mouth, like this.

"Move, come here," and Blondie’s pushing him away and pulling him closer all at once, turning him around onto his knees and then flush against him, Tuco's back against his chest. One hand pushing Tuco's pants around his knees, one finding his cock, and Tuco whines loudly like the animal he knows he is. This is what he's thought about. He's allowed himself to think about this.

Blondie thrusts against him, his cock sliding between his cheeks, slick with sweat, hard and fast. Tuco doesn't know whether to sink back or push forward, resorts to twitching between that cock and that hand, helpless, breath catching in his throat. 

He used to think the last thing he'd ever feel would be the rope on his throat, the burn of it, the pain. Now he thinks the last thing might be Blondie at his throat, the burn inside of him, the pleasure of it.

"Blondie, oh god, oh god," Tuco moans as one thrust finds his hole, too accurately for it to be an accident, pressing in for just one second, and it's far, far too much, and he's thought about this even though he hasn't allowed himself to, tried not to. He comes over Blondie's fist. 

He half expects Blondie to pull back, finish in his own hand, but Blondie carries on thrusting, panting, until Tuco feels him tense and the wetness spill over him, into him. 

A moment that is almost peaceful, until he twists in Blondie's arms and finds their mouths together again.

After they break apart, they share a cigar, not speaking, and move to sleep separately. There's no avoiding what has happened. But there's no need to discuss it, either. They'll carry it with them.

  
****

The next day, they find the graveyard. Blondie doesn't shoot him. Would he have done it, with no one else there but the two of them? He doesn't know, will never know. He doubts Blondie would have wanted to, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't have done it. He's glad he didn't. His own curses shouted over the space between them, lies, again, leaving Blondie to find the truth in them. Blondie's silence like a blessing. He wonders if they'll meet again, and not speak of it.


End file.
